Chapter Text
Zelda likes his mouth, how it’s hungry, how the bone of his chin feels on one gloved finger as she tilts it up to kiss him. And she likes how it speaks in rough waves, how it spills out the parts of Hyrule she has visited but never truly seen—it was a wilder thing when unframed by carriage-curtain windows, quiet-seething, murky-bright, all at once, all at once—but when he trails off, eyes glued to the sun melting west and she knows of what and whom he is thinking she kisses him again and asks if he is sure about this, and he nods as his hands splay across her cheeks.
It’ll take years, he whispers, and she knows, oh how she knows, and tells him she’ll wait.